


22; pretty thing

by ralphstatortots



Series: george and alex [25]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Drug Use, Hand Jobs, M/M, basically: alex nd george get high and make out and get off 2gether, its like a weird mature/explicit rated mix, sweats.....why is this 2.5k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 00:26:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19306915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ralphstatortots/pseuds/ralphstatortots
Summary: Alex usually joins him every other month from then on, wrapping himself up in George’s bed sheets and talking a mile a minute, laughing at everything he says before quickly moving on.Alex has joined him again now, but he’s significantly quieter this time. It’s unfamiliar now to not have that constant chatter in his ear, replaced with the threateningly fast music from the 5-Minute Crafts video that came up on autoplay on his TV. One second he’s watching somebody make a candle holder out of cement, he blinks, and it’s suddenly changed to somebody filling in an E-shaped mould with more cement. He laughs, perhaps much too loud, but Alex laughs along quietly too. It sounds like he’s just laughing for the sake of it.





	22; pretty thing

**Author's Note:**

> i saw a tumblr post abt this and ): i miss it a lot lately
> 
> also coincidentally listened to pretty thing by stello a lot during writing this and it magically fit what i was writing so uhh listen to it for a good vibe ig xxxxx

George isn’t a stoner or anything. He’s not a weed freak getting high every other day, spending more money than he should on it. He never actively seeks it out, but if once every few months it happens to fall into his lap, then he’s not complaining or protesting.

He never buys above three grams, because he knows that would be too much. He’d only bought one gram at first, enough for one smoke that left him loose and lazy while he traced patterns into his bed sheets. But it’s not the sort of thing George can hide from his flatmate, and he doesn’t want to either. It wouldn’t be right to just hide something like that.

George knew Alex had done it before, when he lived in America, and didn't want much to do with it after. That changed when Alex came in to ask about something to do with the oven – an obvious ruse even to George at the time – and ended up sharing half the joint with him. He’d silently bumped up the amount he bought to three grams then, no questions asked.

Alex usually joins him every other month from then on, wrapping himself up in George’s bed sheets and talking a mile a minute, laughing at everything he says before quickly moving on.

Alex has joined him again now, but he’s significantly quieter this time. It’s unfamiliar now to not have that constant chatter in his ear, replaced with the threateningly fast music from the 5-Minute Crafts video that came up on autoplay on his TV. One second he’s watching somebody make a candle holder out of cement, he blinks, and it’s suddenly changed to somebody filling in an E-shaped mould with more cement. He laughs, perhaps much too loud, but Alex laughs along quietly too. It sounds like he’s just laughing for the sake of it.

When George turns to see what has the boy so quiet, it’s then that he realises Alex is playing with his hand.

And it’s an endearing sight, having Alex in his bed. It’s endearing to see him bundled up under the covers and in a hoodie that’s probably George’s own, mixed up in the washing days and weeks and months ago. It’s endearing feeling Alex trace along the lines on his palm and over the soft bump of his knuckles. It’s endearing hearing the soft hum he lets out whenever his eyes drift close, which George somehow missed hearing before.

“You a’right?” George mumbles, turning his hand over in Alex’s grasp. It’s ink spreading on a water stain, something tingling and warm spreading under his skin wherever Alex touches him. The boy stirs from his sleepy trance and turns his head slightly to look up, turning his body to push into George’s side.

Alex hums after a moment, nodding into George’s shoulder. “I’m perfect, mate.” He murmurs and intertwines their other hands together, a giggle gracing the silence as the video counts down to another on autoplay. “Are you?” He asks back, following the bumps and lines on his hand like roads on a map.

George nods and watches Alex play with his hands. Their fingers tangle together and untangle again, and Alex takes to bending his pointer finger before straightening it out again.

“What’re you doin’?” George laughs, amused, when Alex holds their hands together, as if he’s comparing the size between them – which is barely anything honestly, Alex’s fingertips barely stretching past his own.

Alex shrugs and lets out a laugh that rumbles in his throat, light and fuzzy that digs itself into George’s chest like it lives there. “Dunno, your hands are just nice. Like, not big or anything, just right– ‘nd soft, really fuckin’ soft.” He rambles on, curving his own fingers over George’s hand so it clenches into a fist, then running his thumb over the jutting bumps of his knuckles.

“Bit gay, mate.” George remarks and spreads his hand out again, “Could just say you want to shag my hand and leave it at that. Should I give you both some privacy?”

Alex snorts, blinking slowly. “Never said I wanted to shag your _hand_ ,” He brings his hands back to himself, turning his body so his chest is now flush with George’s side instead, chin perched delicately on his shoulder. “No need to make assumptions.”

“It’s not an assumption if you’re practically gagging for my hands, Alex.” George sighs and leans his head back, closing his eyes. It’s so he can’t see the look Alex is giving him; half-lidded and soft eyes peering up at him, pink lips parted like they do sometimes when Alex isn’t aware of it. It’s a look that George wants to see forever – if he weren’t on the other end of it, that is, playing as the victim to whatever that expression is and feeling far too heated over it.

“I’m not _gagging_ for them,” Alex scoffs softly, and the eye roll is audible in his voice. “I mean, unless you _want_ me to be gagging on them, that is.” He says, and there’s a cheeky grin on his lips when George squints his eyes open.

“Whatever,” George hums and tries to ignore the way his face heats up at the thought. He pulls his hands back to grab for his phone lost in his sheets, paying no mind to the quiet sigh Alex lets out. “I want churros.” He mumbles as he opens up Uber Eats, passing the phone to Alex once he’s picked his order.

“You’re gonna eat fourteen fucking churros, are you?” Alex sighs but adds one more to the basket, as well as an additional sauce, before handing it back.

George just shrugs and places the order, mumbling about an hour long wait for some fucking churros as Alex takes control of the TV and puts on Spotify instead. He doesn’t mind that so much, mostly because it’s much better than whatever shite was playing before, but it does something strange to his chest seeing Alex bundled up in his blanket, in his bed, playing with his hands.

“No homo but,” George starts, sucking in a breathe when Alex’s eyes flutter open to look up at him. “But you’re like...really fucking pretty. Or handsome, or whatever.” He throws out, looking away and back at the TV to watch the time count down on the song. It’s like waiting for a bomb to explode, or–or waiting to see how his flatmate reacts to George calling him attractive.

“Right,” Alex snorts under the covers, pulling down his hood while his face flushes a deep pink. His short fringe falls all over his forehead, messy and ruffled and far too appealing. “Cheers. You’re not too bad yourself.”

George hums and lays against his headboard for a while, barely listening to the occasional incidental noise from Alex and the music he’d put on. He doesn’t know how long they lay there; it could be the full hour that they have to wait for food to arrive, or only five minutes. It’s all too hazy, lost in empty thoughts that cloud his awareness of everything around him.

Which is why Alex gets the jump on him while he’s unaware, fumbling to sit up and clumsily climb into George’s lap in a fashion that makes George want to laugh. He doesn’t get the chance to though, Alex’s hands coming up to trace over his features.

George squints, admittedly confused, but doesn’t do much to stop it, and he doesn’t want to try either. He doesn’t stop Alex when his hands pause on his heated cheeks, doesn’t stop him when one hand tangles itself in his hair, doesn’t stop him when Alex leans forward to catch George’s mouth.

George loses himself again then, focusing blindly on the way Alex gasps into their impromptu kiss and how his fingers paint invisible paths across his neck. It’s like sacrificing himself, George thinks as Alex presses him up against the headboard, and it suddenly makes sense to his drug-addled brain. It all makes sense, he thinks as he grabs Alex’s hips and slides his hands up the back of his hoodie, slipping his tongue into Alex’s mouth just to hear the soft moan he knows he’ll receive.

It feels like maybe it’s been building up to this, all the touches whenever George passes Alex another joint and the words said are whispered like secrets, the laughs and the way Alex seems to lean on him like they’re drawn together. This is their thing, almost, only for them, and now it’s evolved into something that George wouldn’t dream of stopping.

“You’re hard,” Alex mumbles against his mouth when he pulls back, breathless and lips coiling into an impish smile. “You’re hard.” He repeats like it’s a grand statement, pushing down into George’s lap just to prove it.

“So are you,” George scoffs and tries not to let the way Alex’s hands linger on his stomach affect him. “Weed does that to you, I think.”

“You think? You don’t sound very sure.” Alex laughs into his cheek, trailing kisses down to George’s jaw, gasping into his neck when George slides his hands back down to rest his hands on Alex’s ass.

“Sorry that I don’t know all the side effects of fucking marijuana then, mate.” George sighs back, slouching against the headboard when Alex pushes down on the hem of his joggers and rubbing his thumbs into the bone of his hip.

Alex laughs again, bringing their mouths back together. “I wish we had more,” He mumbles against George’s lips while his hands occupy themselves with curling around George’s cock through his briefs. “We could’ve, like– what is it called? Shotgunning? We could’ve done that.”

George hums in understanding, and from how Alex’s fingers trail over the veins of his cock. He’s almost ashamed to admit that he got hard _really fucking fast_ just from kissing Alex and the light touches, but Alex’s smile tells him that he already knows this.

“That’s a thought for next time,” He murmurs, voice breaking its low tone when Alex pulls him out of his briefs and pushing his still-clothed hips into George’s. “We’d probably waste perfectly good weed though – from getting distracted.”

Alex makes a noise of agreement but doesn’t actually look like he’s listening, toying with the hem of his joggers until he’s got his own cock out and gripping both of them in one hand. It shamefully makes George moan, feeling how hard Alex is, and he swears he feels his heartbeat in his fingertips – or maybe that’s his own, beating so hard in his chest that Alex can feel it too.

Perhaps a part of George wanted this, deep in his gut where he hides the secrets he himself doesn’t even know. Secrets like wanting Alex when they share a smile between them, only for each other. The hands that guide his hands to roll up a joint when they do this, his own hands shaky from laughing too much. Secrets like thinking of the boy late at night when nothing is real, and thoughts come like waves washing over him. Perhaps George wanted this to happen. Perhaps Alex did too.

“George,” Alex gasps against his mouth, rutting down against him until his moans waver and bury themselves deep under George’s skin. “Fuck, I dunno if it’s the weed or–” He groans, losing himself in another kiss that George pulls him down for, digging his fingertips into the line of Alex’s neck.

“Or what?” George says when he pulls back and pushes his hips up into Alex’s fist. There’s heat pooling in his stomach with every stroke of the other’s hand, warmth spreading upwards into his lungs and heart and throat.

“I dunno if it’s the weed but this–this feels so good,” Alex pants, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth and eyelids fluttering open. “Like, it feels _right_.”

George can’t help but snort and grin into Alex’s cheek when he distracts his mouth with spreading kisses over the boy’s face. It’s an action he’s definitely going to deny happened later. “You on that psychological shit? Or philosophical, I dunno. Sayin’ about the meaning of life or some shit.”

“I’m not discussing the meaning of life while your dick is in my hand, mate.” Alex giggles softly, the sound melting into a breathy moan while he tilts his head back for George to have better freedom to his bare neck. “I’m not discussing that with you at all.”

George huffs a laugh into his neck, grazing teeth along his skin before biting softly to make a lasting mark. He wants to see it the next morning, for days after and to remember that he put it there. Heat curls in his stomach at the thought, vigor running through him when he sees just how much bare skin is left for more bruises.

The hand around them both curls tighter, desperation evident in its muscles, and George whispers the other’s name when he feels the tsunami of a wave build up behind him. Maybe it is the weed making him more susceptible to arousal – or maybe it’s Alex, with his thin hands and breathless moans and fluttering eyelashes that keep peering at George.

Alex pulls him into a kiss desperately when his hips push into George’s, gasps of his name falling from his lips like it’s the only sound he knows, and he shudders not long after. It doesn’t take George long to realise Alex has come just from being in his lap and from his own hand, gripping both their cocks so tight together that George can still feel the rabbit-quick heartbeat, unsure if it’s Alex’s or his own.

But it doesn’t stop Alex’s hand from curling around his own or his mouth from meeting George’s, soft hums melting into his mouth while the fingers trail over thin veins and the pre-cum lightly building on the head of his cock. George doesn’t even know he’s coming until he hears stuttering groans in his own ears, before realising they’re his own. Alex guides him through it with soft, encouraging murmurs while his hand slows.

They both catch their breath after, closer than they should be for just friends, flatmates. George doesn’t think they can call each other that anymore, their relationship warped months ago when they started smoking together. Perhaps the idea of that doesn’t frighten George as much as it should.

They’re disturbed from the soft press of mouths and lingering touches, once they’ve cleaned up haphazardly with tissues from George’s bedside table, when the doorbell rings. Alex groans frustratedly and mumbles about whoever the fuck it is ringing on their doorbell so late just as George remembers their food.

He reluctantly is the one to get up to answer it, stumbling back through the dark of the hallway to find Alex with dazed, soft eyes and hogging his side of the bed. George ignores the rising warmth of affection high in his chest to tell the boy to move over, throwing the bag of food not-so-gently into the middle of the bed.

Maybe they’ll be alright, George thinks when he sees the bruises he’d made on Alex’s neck, peeking out from under the hoodie that’s most definitely George’s he realises. Maybe this’ll be fine, and his thoughts are only confirmed when Alex gives him a crooked smile, chocolate sauce and cinnamon sugar sticking to the corner of his mouth, and his free hand thumbing over the bump of George’s knuckles.


End file.
